In a small, superstitious town, Christine Daae is chosen as a sacrifice to the quell the evil that has risen in the surrounding forest. With only the memory of her father for comfort, she finds something else in the woods. AU EC

A/N - Here is the final chapter of my story that I
promised. Sorry for taking so long to write it. I guess it
was hard to finish this story. Or know how to finish it.
But I suddenly felt the inspiration today and couldn't deny myself from
finishing it. I want to thank all of the readers, especially
those who reviewed and provided positive encouragment. It really
meant a lot to me.

I do plan on
writing more soon. I already have a small scene written out after
having a moment of inspiration a week ago. I can't give you a
timeline. But I would like to post a new story in the next few
weeks or so. Keep your eyes open.

This
chapter, like the last, also has an M rating. If you would care
to skip that part of it, continue scrolling down about halfway through
the story until you reach the divider. It's safe to read after
that. Without further adieu, the final chapter. . .

Chapter
25

Soft breathing sounded
beside her and she turned beneath the quilts to face the sleeping
figure of her husband beside her. Erik's arm still lay across her,
long tapered fingers splayed across her stomach as though out of an
unconscious desire to utterly possess his beloved. Christine took
advantage of his state and quietly studied him. His face was more
relaxed then she had ever seen it. Stripped of its defenses and
masks of emotion, his face was filled with a strange peace that
somehow suited him, even though it had evaded him for much of his
life. She brushed aside a tendril of dark hair from his brow and
smiled softly. The marred flesh that covered half his face was no
longer startling to her. There was a certain endearing quality to
the vulnerability of his deformity. He was still hesitant to expose
his masked face, but he had grown surer of himself now. After all,
he had made love to her without the guise of his white mask.

Green eyes opened
slowly and regarded her for a moment before she noticed. A soft gasp
fell from her lips when she realized he had been watching her, caught
in her close study of him.

"My love," he said
softly, his hypnotic voice hampered by the hoarseness of morning.
His hand reached out to stroke her face and he watched as she smiled,
pressing her cheek against the caress of his fingers.

"Erik," she replied
softly.

He pulled her into his
embrace, feeling the softness of her skin against his own. I will
never tire of this sensation. She pressed her face against his
shoulder, nuzzling it with tender affection. Finally, her eyes
sought out the morning light, but it was hidden behind the heavy
drapery at the windows. Christine rose from bed, carrying a sheet
with her out of modesty.

She turned to look at
him as she walked towards the windows. Erik watched her intently as
she strode away from his side, his green piercing eyes never leaving
her. Did I really give myself to this man? It seems like a
dream. A soft blush rose to her cheeks and she quickly turned
away from him, drawing back the curtains with one hand, while the
other rested at her breast, holding the sheet carefully in place.

Sunlight spilled into
the darkened room. Christine reveled in its warm rays, lingering in
the light that seemed to have been missing until this very moment.

He studied her. The
angel, aglow with morning light, stood framed by the unearthly veil
of white, her long curls spilling down her naked back. He smiled
wickedly at her modesty. Surely, she did not need to hide from him
now. Erik rose quickly from the bed, discarding the sheets that had
hidden him, and drew up behind her with the stealth that only he
possessed. His hands rested upon her bare shoulders and gently drew
across the skin in a loving caress. A soft sigh fell from her lips,
but she refused to turn and face him.

His mouth sought out
the tender flesh at her neck, and he heard her whimper softly as he
nipped at it.

"Christine," he
seemed to purr.

The mere sound of his
voice, uttering only her name, was nearly her undoing. She would
never be able to escape that voice, never be able to deny him
anything. She was a slave to the voice that the angels had bestowed
upon him. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his breath upon her
skin, which ached for his touches and his kisses.

"You still hide from
me?" he seemed to ask, rather then state.

She could not respond,
for he held her under his thrall. His love still frightens me,
she thought. But I would not have it any other way. His
hands found the sheet that she still clutched to her breast and
slowly, with agonizingly deliberate caresses, slid the sheet down her
body until it pooled upon the floor.

"Please," she
whimpered softly.

"What, my love?" he
breathed at her ear, raising more then a few goose bumps across her
exposed flesh.

"I am yours," she
breathed.

"Mine," he seethed,
running his hands across her breasts.

Christine shuddered
uncontrollably in his arms, leaning back into his strong chest as he
continued to tease her. She could feel the nakedness of his body
behind her. His desire for her was quite evident, and a soft moan
escaped her lips as he drew himself against her.

His hand drifted lower,
and her breath hitched in her throat as the dexterous, musician's
fingers found the source of her own desire. She found her body
pushing violently against his. His hand remained firm, tormenting
her with each movement, with each dip of a finger. Her breaths came
quickly, and she felt her hips thrusting blindly outwards with each
stroke.

"Do you want me?"
he asked, so quietly that it was nearing a whisper. But even a
whisper from her angel could send her over the edge.

"Y-yes," she
managed.

She felt his hand fall
away from her and a cold emptiness fill her bones. But he was
leading her back into his chambers. The light did not shine in this
area of the room. Only the dying light of a fire flickered in the
large fireplace. There was a thick, soft rug set on the floor before
the fireplace, for she could feel it beneath her feet. Before she
could question his actions, she found that he was guiding her down
upon it, resting her body upon the luxurious carpet. Christine
suddenly felt vulnerable as she lay beneath him. Erik towered above
her in the dark like a strange, avenging angel. Only his eyes shone
from the darkened silhouette of his body. A shiver ran throughout
her body. He looked both frightening and incredibly alluring at the
same time.

"Do not be afraid, my
angel," he said, the gloriousness of his voice at its peak. Her
body trembled with each word he uttered. She feared what would
happen if he fell into song.

"Let go," he
replied, his baritone voice both low and raw at the same time.
"Don't hold back from me."

"But angel, it is
hard for me. It embarrasses me."

"Never be
embarrassed. Do you not see? I want every part of you. I want
every touch, every sound from your lips, every hitch in your breath,
and every cry of your body. All of it."

"When I hear your
voice, even in my dreams, I want nothing else but you. I feel as
though I cannot live apart from you, that I must be joined to you
always. Is it wrong to think such thoughts? Is it wrong for me to
want one person so much?"

His answer came not in
words, but in action. He moved upon her, claiming her lips in a
suggestive fashion and begging for entrance into her closed mouth.
She willingly gave in, felt him claim every part of her. Erik pulled
away for a second, still a looming shadow in the dark with his soft,
delicate angel beneath him. He began to sing, as though reading the
darkest desires of her mind, and she began to quake. Every note
seemed to shake her body to its core. Every change in melody seemed
to induce a new wave of pleasure that she had fought for so long to
control. Drop all defenses. It was hard to let go, to allow
the feelings he awoke within her to spill over the dam of her will.

She clutched
frantically at his arms as he held her. Her eyes were alight with a
strange gleam not so unlike a wolf's keen eyes. And for a moment,
they seemed to match the fire in his eyes. We are truly of one
flesh now, she thought, the same in every sense. When
they finally merged, their cries muffled in each other, she could
feel her tedious grip on control finally loosen and break away. It
did not matter anymore. She felt him within her, moving with such
passion and vigor, that she no longer cared of the propriety she had
held so dear. When the pleasure filled her face, she found him
smiling back at her, stroking her face softly, and gently resting his
marred cheek against her own.

There was nothing to
fear anymore. Giving in was hard, but now she was past the point of
no return. She could deny him nothing. She could deny herself
nothing.

Months had passed. The
health that had once escaped the Countess Bellamont had quickly
returned. The thin frame was now healthy and firm. Eyes that had
once been dimmed with sorrow and illness were now more vibrant then
they had ever been. Her cheeks glowed with such color that many
wondered what her secret was for retaining such beauty.

But then again, the
Countess Bellamont was somewhat of an enigma, just as her elusive
husband. They rarely ventured into public, preferring to live their
life together in the quiet world of their own estate, with a few
friends and servants to care for them.

But suddenly, one
summer evening, when all of Paris eagerly awaited the introduction of
a new diva upon the stage of the Opera Populaire, the couple stepped
out of obscurity. Box Five was now theirs. Rented from the managers
on a generous fee, Count Bellmont could often be spotted sitting in
shadow amongst the plush red chairs. Dressed in the finest of
evening clothes, dark and rich in color, he remained silent in his
seat, watching each performance with such intensity that a stranger
might think he had a personal interest vested in each show.

But to the knowing
spectator, his wife was the new diva upon the stage. Countess
Christine Bellamont, trained by none other than her own husband, by
far excelled any previous soprano. Some swore that her voice was
heaven sent, for no one could possible sing so beautifully, and draw
so many tears from even the strictest of eyes. Upon further
investigation, one could learn that the new composer to hit Paris'
opera was none other than the Count himself. He was indeed a great
musician. None could rival the powerful emotive qualities of his
music, nor surpass the passion that played out in his operas.

Some even speculated
that the character of Don Juan, in the similarly titled opera, was
played by the Count himself. But since he did not remove his mask in
the latter half of the opera, no one knew for sure. Yet, the effect
that the singer had on the new diva was unmistakable. There was more
to their performance then pure camaraderie. There was a love so
deep, a hunger so pronounced, that only lovers could display in such
a way.

Taken from the Diary
of Christine Daae Bellamont,

I could not imagine
ever loving someone so dear. And yet our love grows more and more
with each passing day. I once feared this love when I was young.
Perhaps because it is a love so encompassing, so all consuming, that
one loses oneself in it. But I was reborn the day that I gave myself
to my angel.

I was once angered
that he took me away from my life in a village bordering a very large
forest. That he had watched me since my father's death and plotted
my flight from that place so meticulously. But I see now the love
that he had for me. Never will I find anyone who rivals that love.
I once thought a young man to be my salvation. But I look back on
that with wiser eyes. I see that I was afraid of Erik's love for
me. Raoul was only an escape from it, but nothing else. When I
learned that Erik was not alone in his love, I knew that I must stay
with him, that I was meant to stay with him, for I shared his love
even though I dared not admit it.

I love Erik so much.
This entry cannot possibly relay the depth of our love. But I can
say that music has never left my mind and heart since I married him.
It died every time we were parted. But now that we're together, it
will remain with me forever. He trains me every day and we sing
together to heights that exceed all mortal capacity. My angel has
given me everything I could possibly want or need. But truly he is
all I want or need.

I remain his captive
in mind, body, and soul. . . but a willing captive. He is also as
chained to me as I am to him. The pain that we have both endured has
been slowly forgotten. The pain he had held against God has
diminished over the months since our wedding. I even saw him taking
communion at mass. For once, I believe my husband has found the
peace that has escaped him for so long. He is still reluctant to
tell me of his time in Persia, or of the troubled childhood he had
endured. But he is slowly confiding in me. I know that someday we
will move beyond the past. God is forgiving, and whatever sin that
has been committed at his hands has been repaid over the course of
his troubled life. He has given up the hatred that held his heart so
firmly, and I see a kindness, a philanthropy, replacing it.

We will continue to
heal together.

I must go to him
now. The hour is late and I long to sleep in his arms.

Fini

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